^ 



One Night on 
Picket 



By A. M. Prude 




PRICE 13 CENTS 
MAIL 15 



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One Night on 
Picket 



BY 

A. M. PRUDE 

A Forest Cavalryman, 



Author of 

Solioquy of Birmingham Bob ot Rainbow Glen ; Return From War, 

100,000 Men in Tears, One Night's Confederate Service, 

Fifteen Days' Confederate Service or "War is Hell," 

Et. al. 



DEDICATION. 

This Unpretentious Booklet Is Lovingly Dedicated To The 

Patriotic Braves Of Company I, 7th Ala. Cavalry 

Who Fell Dead On Field Of Battle. 



Copyrighted by 
A. M. Prude, Pratt City, Ala., 1917 






One Night On Picket 

J. A. Howell was religious at home before the war, carried 
his religion with him into the war, used it there, brought it back 
with him untarnished from the bloody strife, and at home, died 
with it at last, conspicious to the world. 

In Tennessee, one gloomy, cold night, darkness impene- 
trable, Mr. Howell and I were ordered to follow an unplain road 
until we came to a creek, and there remain, without relief, 
until break of day, and watch for the approach of the enemy in 
that direction. 

We left the command bivouaced in a wood and began our 
perilous ride, well knowing the possibility and probability were 
that we would ride into an ambuscade, and the first warning 
would be the fire-belching muskets of the foe flashing death- 
dealing missiles into our breasts. 

On we slowly and cautiously went until our horses' feet 
splashed the water, crossing silently our dark pathway, and there, 
we knew, we were to shiver sleepless and hungry, wet and cold, 
and suffer indescribable tortures until the morning sun, ob- 
scured by the murky clouds, should mark the end of our vigil. 
All through the night an occasional shower of snow fell, which, 
under more favorable circumstances would have looked beauti- 
ful indeed. 

While wending our way over the dark road to our post, 
our thoughts wandered to our loved ones in far-away Pickens 
County. Mr. Howell had a good, Christian wife and eight babies 
at home, dependent on his labor for support. Every time he 
drew his pay he immediately sent almost the entire amount to 
Bess and the babies, reserving only a paltry sum for himself. 

Soon after reaching our post, our minds still wandering home, 
he remarked, "You have always said to me you did not feel that 
you would be killed or die in the war, but I am not so hopeful. 
Oh, what would I give tonight if I could see Bess and my darling 
little children in her lap and around her side, in our fire-bright, 
love garlanded home, and once more their sweet voices hear, and 
see her, my darling wife, the mother of my helpless and unpro- 
tected babes, as she bends upon her knees and implores the pro- 
tection of the Great God of the Universe upon me and our loved 
ones. I want you, if I am killed tonight, and you are spared, to 
go to my wife and orphans and tell them I was ready and died 
in the arms of my Redeemer. ' ' 

When ceased speaking did he, and silence profound reigned, 
save the champing of our horses upon their bits, the murmuring 
water of the runlet disputing the right of way with the pebbles 
in its hurry to the Tennessee, and perhaps notes discordant of an 
owl far away hooting, he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes, and 
wiped from his face neither perspiration nor the dews of night 
gathering there. ©C(,A458406 >. A /3 



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JAN -2 1917 



One Night on Picket 3 

As he was speaking, my mind reverted to far away home, 
to mother, to father and httle sister, around a bright, crackUng 
fire, who, I knew, were ever thinking of me, and to father's 
faithful negroes singing their old plantation songs around their 
log-heap fires in their warm, comfortable cabins, and I thought 
then, and realized indeed, and do today, that all that was 
saved of value to mortal man from the fall, the wreck and ruin 
of lost Paradise, was, and is, the sacred home, home, sweet, 
delectable home, summit of human felicity, for there the whiz- 
zing of angel wings and seraphic anthems are nearest heard, and 
when I of home's sweet environments weary and tire, revere 
them no more and pay them not homage due, let me, vile, base 
wretch undeserving, no longer inhale invigoratmg air. 

That was a bitter cold night, winter's tempestuous howl 
saluted our ears all night long. I was sick, hungry, wet, sleepy, 
tired and chilled by winter's blasting and freezmg winds. I 
never in all my life, suffered such terrible agonies as I did that 
night. We suffered the excruciating tortures of the damned in 
regions of despair. 

I said to Mr. Howell, as we tramped and tramped around 
our shivering horses to keep the frost from bitting our toes and 
fingers, "What if father, mother and two sisters, and your 
wife and children knew of our pitiable condition tonight. Sleep 
would fly into banishment, and their mental agony would be 
as great as our physical sufferings." 

He replied, "Yes, I often think of that, and I am glad they 

don't know it." ' ,.,,,, 

After a long, pensive stillness, nothmg heard but the rough 
wind's howl among the trembling tree tops, he again broke the 
silence and said: "Our cause is hopelessly lost, and just or 
unjust, is a question not in it now; it is lost, irretrievably lost, 
and it is inhuman and barbaric to require of us such sufferings 
and tortures as we are enduring; it is useless, nonsensical, to 
continue the struggle longer ; we are bound to fail, right or wrong, 
and the end is not far away." He said, "General Lee, President 
Davis and all the Confederate authorities know this as well as 
we. and they know, every blow that General Lee deals is only 
a blow in vain, but it carries, sorrow, sadness, gloom, destruc- 
tion and death throughout our already blood-deluged once fair 
Southland. They know every blow he strikes does no possible 
good whatever in any sense, and yet it empties forever the chair 
reserved around the sacred fireside of our Southern Southland 
dear, which can never be refilled. They know, every blow lowers 
the heads already adorned with whiteness, and waters afresh 
th£ grief marked cheeks of aged and tottering mothers and sires, 
or widows and orphans the once happy home. They know, 
every blow veils more dolefully, dismally and deeply the 
Southern home, and drives happiness, farther and farther and 
farther away." . 

I again said, "Mr Howell, if you are killed tonight upon 
the bank of this little, purling stream, or die from exposure to 



4 One Night on Picket 

this weather angry now, who would, or could, fill the chair 
reserved for you by your loved ones, your wife tonight occupy- 
ing one jamb of your fireside, your eight babies huddled together 
around the other, ah! who could fill in their midst your empty 
chair?" 

He answered with a grievous, tear-starting sigh, "None," 
and again relapsed into silence deep, but I could tell from his 
sniffing that a flood of tears had again bursted through their 
barriers and were silently cascading his well-nigh frozen cheeks. 

I asked Mr. Howell how long the war would last, if General 
Lee, President Davis and his cabinet should have to go into the 
army as private soldiers and suffer as they, pushed from 
association of loved ones into this cold and biting frost. 

His reply was, "About ten days." "No, " retracting he 
said, "they would formulate a plan of settlement while shiver- 
ing in this frost entirely satisfactory to Lincoln long before the 
coming sun twilights another morn, or birds bestir once again 
from their roosts, and their songs chirped could be once more 
heard, conditioned only on amnesty for themselves." 

To the poor private, "War, truly is slavery, bloody stakes, 
coffin tops and hell." 



One morning, years after way-cry ceased to alarm, after a 
long, lingering illness, realizing life was fast ebbing away, and 
remorseless death was eagerly watching near, he called his 
devoted wife and all his loved ones around his bedside, said he 
"wanted to see them all once more." 

After feasting his eyes for the last time on their sweet faces, 
he, with smile on his trembling lips, turned satisfied and, resign- 
edly away, and about noon, J. A. Howell, swept by the glitter- 
ing stars enroute to the home of the Christ he so long and faith- 
fully served. 



Colonel Denson and the Moonshiner, or 
"What was the Matter With Hannah'' 

Reader, you, as I, have no doubt, often heard the question 
asked, "What was the matter with Hannah?" 

Some would say one thing, some another; no two fully 
agreeing, and aft^-r long, careful meditation, and true delibera- 
tion on that all important subject, I, for many years had been 
fully convinced and satisfied that there were various and sundry 
things which beset and perplexed Hannah, but Col. W. H. 
Denson, while District Attorney, said there was only one thing 
"the matter with Hannah;" and he proved it too, to a moral 
certainty, to my satisfaction and to the conviction of a jury. 

I was, at the time referred to, on a visit to Birmingham 
and the U. S. Court was in session. I had never been in a U. S. 
Court, never had seen Colonel Denson, a District attorney, a 
Federal judge, nor a moonshiner, and through curiosity I 
dropped into the court to see if they were conducting their 
investigations on scientific principles. A little in the rear, 
though close enough to see and hear well, I seated myself by a 
gentleman of rustic air, dressed in gray homespun jeans clothes, 
shoes worn and unpolished, hair stranger to both comb and 
brush, toying a hat, judging from its dilapidated and antiquated 
appearance must have been built in colonial days. This man 
I afterwards found to be a typical moonshine mountaineer 
wildcatter. 

Just as I took my seat. Colonel Denson called a case, 
"Government vs. Hannah." The evidence of all the witnesses 
with no conflict was this: Persons in search of boisterous, 
animating and exhilarating juice would go to Hannah and ask 
where it could be found. 

He always replied that he did not know, but HAD HEARD 
if a fellow would take a bottle of emptiness, follow a pathway 
about half a mile into the woods until it came to a log crossing 
the trail, lay the bottle on the log, half a dollar beside it, go 
off out of sight, go back in about thirty minutes, by some strange 
and magic presto veto change, hocus pocus transition unknown 
to him, he would find the rnoney gone and the bottle filled with 
the best and purest "mountain dew" that was ever wildcatted 
by a moonshiner or cataracted an inebriate's gullet. 

This state of affairs, to the perplexity of the uninitiated, 
continued some time, until Uncle Sam's curiosity was somewhat 
aroused, and he sent a trusted and experienced agent to see 
how that mysterious transformation was accomplished, and to 
solve, if possible, this intricate and difficult problem. 

The agent worked out the example according to his arbi- 
tary rules and found the answer to be, marible dictu\ that 
Hannah was making and selling whiskey without license, and 
wildcat whiskey at that, and referred the case to the U. S. Court. 



6 Colonel Denson and the Moonshiner 

The case was being tried, and after his bow to the court 
and jury, Colonel Denson said, "Gentlemen of the jury, we 
have heard all our lives two important questions asked, and 
to neither one has a satisfactory answer ever been given. They 
have always been, and are still, vexatious and mooted questions. 
The two momentous questions, gentlemen of the jury are: 
'What was the matter with Hannah?' and 'Who struck Billy 
Patterson?' Gentlemen of the jury, we may never be able to 
find out who struck Billy that fearful blow, but we are going to 
find out to a certainty 'what was the matter with Hannah,' so 
you can give a correct answer." He then rehearsed the evidence 
before the jury, and said: 

"Now, gentlemen of the jury, is it not clear to your minds 
'what was the matter with Hannah?' Hannah was sellling 
whiskey without license, and wildcat whiskey at that. Gentle- 
men, when any one asks you again 'what was the matter with 
Hannah,' tell them Hannah was selling whiskey without license, 
and it 'mountain dew,' defrauding this great Government, 
defrauding you, gentlemen, your wives and children, out of 
your just and equitable rights." 

Colonel Denson had Judge Bruce grinning a broad de- 
lighting smile across and o'er his face circling from ear to ear, 
and everybody in the room sniggering except Hannah and the 
moonshiner sitting beside me, and I had curiosity to know who 
Colonel Denson was, and I bent over, putting my hand to my 
mouth and asked my seat mate, "Who is the man speaking?" 
He replied very positively and with much vindictiveness, "It is 
that ar g — d d — m cussed Denson." 

I did not know why he spoke so disrespectfully of Colonel 
Denson; I could see why Hannah was not enjoying himself as 
we were, but I could not see why my moonshine seat mate was 
so displeased. I saw he was ' sho nuff" mad 'bout somp'n 
'nother," and for safety, off to another seat I moved. 

The jury in the Hannah case soon returned into the court 
room, and said by their verdict, that they had settled at last 
that long discussed question, that it was true there had never 
been but one thing the matter with Hannah, and that was 
Hannah had been selling "mountain dew." 

After disposition of Hannah question was had, Judge 
Bruce said, "Call your next case, Mr. District Attorney." 

Colonel Denson picked up a package of papers, and, after 
drawing out one, looked at it for a moment intently, and said 
"If your Honor pleases, the next case is a case very similar to 
the one we have just tried, but unfortunately, it is against 
Redsnout Snollogoster, and not against Billy Patterson, for 
if it was against Patterson, I think we might find out who dealt 
Billy that violent stroke; but for the present, at least, we will 
have to let that vexatious question remain unanswered and still 
debatable. Mr. Marshal, call Redsnout Snollogoster." 

The Marshal called aloud "Redsnout Snollogoster in 
court?" and my ex-seat mate and typical moonshiner answered 



Colonel Denson and the Moonshiner 7 

"H-e-r-3, ' slowly and morosely, as though the world was not 
rocking entirely to his notion, and futurity to him looked dis- 
tinctly dismal, as though he thought were singing the dire fates 
like those at Troy the Trojans heard, and he was soon to be 
roughly driven by violent wind and tossed by trouble waves, 
arose and walked reluctantly inside the bar, and took his seat 
behind his attorney, presenting a most woeful and sorrowful 
figure, a face careworn and haggard, as though he realized the 
world, without sympathy or mercy, was about to deal him a 
cruel, heavy, staggering and a "most unkindest" thump and 
many years must intervene before he could again in freedom 
sniff aromatic gales happy like the mocking bird whistling 
in the air. 

Then and there, if my mind was still a little somewhat m 
doubt as to who it was that struck Billy that star-seeing 
"jodarter," it was as clear as the noonday sun in a cloudless 
sky what for that mad moonshiner hit Denson that wicked lick. 



On October 13th, 1903, long after the foregoing events 
transpired, when drowsy night, with her sullen wings double 
shaded the earth, the wild winds in their stony caves slept in 
calm and sinless peace, fowls in their twig nests were couched, 
wild, timorous beasts hungry came forth in midnight air the 
rough wastes and woods to prowl and roam, and hilarity and 
luxury coalesced and reigned supreme in the glen where poor 
scarce welcome are within its pales, it was ascertained beyond 
peradventure, to a mathematical certainty, that it was Birming- 
ham Bob of Rainbow Glen that struck that queried blow with 
pugilistic violence driven, for, on that night, he, naughty boy 
{widely known throughout the land concerning truth and veracity 
and rich because the Confederate soldier's widow is poor), frantic, 
said in his famous soliloquy, that it was he who delivered to 
Bill that triumphant "docsologer" which shattered his teeth, 
disorganized his nose, mutilated his facial resemblance into 
disfiguration and frightful deformity, gave him a view panoram- 
ic of moon and every star spangling its brilliancy in the skies, 
and o'er viney dale, and dense wood ravined, floated, far out, 
Bill's loud, pain-proclaiming wails echoing and re-echoing on 
the morning breeze. 



More Pork or A Nail on the Head Hard Hit. 



Years ago, when the prohibition question was being cussed 
and discussed throughout the state of Kansas, and great and mul- 
titudinous billows of sulphurious profanity was being rolled and 
surged from center to uttermost bounds, a whiskey advocate was 
addressing an audience and began, "Ladies and Gentlemen, our 
great state is purely a grain growing state. We have here, no 
rich iron beds and coal deposits like Alabama, no cotton, cane 
and rice fields like Mississippi and Louisiana, but here we 
raise vast quantities of all kinds of grain. What would we do 
with all our grain if it were not for our distilleries?" 

A prohibition farmer in back of audience, in intuition quick- 
ly jumped to his feet, and with a stratagem successfully confut- 
ing the emergency, interruptingly, with vehemenence replied in 
stentorian tones of suavity void, "Feed it to hogs. Raise more 
pork and less hell. ' ' 



Caucasia Versus Negrem, or the Negro's Hard Fate. 

He may at any time be killed, 
The ground made red with his blood spilled. 
When spring with mantle clothes with green, 
His body lynched may oft' be seen. 

He may be killed — killed without fear. 
When Summer with its heat is here. 
When Winter wraps with thick snow gown. 
Or when the Autumn leaves are brown. 

To tree tied at him you can look, 
Chained there for him alive to cook. 
His liver baked ship to earth's ends, 
A keep-sake for your distant friends. 

Kill him, yes you can, for fun sheer. 
From New Year Day to end of year. 
But, if you kill a jay or quail. 
You'll pay for that or go to jail. 



FINIS. 



iLSSl °'' CONGRESS 

Pili 

002 098 -jyj™""^ 



